


Five Times Tony Benches Peter on a Mission + One Time Peter Benches Tony

by awesomesockes, whumphoarder



Series: Christ, What Now? [17]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Banter, Crack Treated Seriously, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Homework, Humor, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, IN SPACE!, Injury, Mission Fic, Peter Gets Benched, Peter Parker Has a Bad Day, Peter Parker Whump, Peter Parker is a Little Shit, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Tony Stark, Sick Peter Parker, Team as Family, Vomiting, Whump, stowaway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:48:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22865821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awesomesockes/pseuds/awesomesockes, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whumphoarder/pseuds/whumphoarder
Summary: Tony has finally started allowing the kid to tag along on missions with the team. Unfortunately, things don’t always go as planned.(Or, five times Tony makes Peter sit out on a mission + one time the tables are turned.)Alternative Title: The Benchwarmer
Relationships: Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton & Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Steve Rogers, Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Steve Rogers & Tony Stark
Series: Christ, What Now? [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1282181
Comments: 290
Kudos: 627
Collections: love of marvel





	1. Hurt

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [sallyidds](https://sallyidss.tumblr.com/) and [xxx-cat-xxx](https://xxx-cat-xxx.tumblr.com/) for beta reading!

Ever since Tony agreed to let Peter come along on a real mission with the team, the kid has been practically vibrating with excitement.

“So, when we storm the warehouse,” Peter says eagerly, “do you think it would look cooler if I backflipped into the room, or if I crawled across the ceiling and dropped down from a web like _‘Helloooo boys, how’s it hanging?”_

Given that the kid has spent the majority of the forty-minute flight babbling on about everything from proper uppercut technique (“Yeah, no, you’re gonna be keeping your distance here, kid—webs only”), to practicing potential comebacks for the criminals’ quips (“You don’t actually have to talk the whole time you fight, you know that, right?”), to whether or not he’s allowed to activate the suit’s instant kill mode (a resounding “NO” from all on board), Tony’s patience is wearing thin.

“What would _really_ be cool,” Tony answers in a grumble, “is if you’d just stick to the plan like we keep telling you.”

“Right, right, I know, of course,” Peter says quickly. “But what if something goes wrong and we have to improvise? Like, yesterday Mr. Barton was telling me about this one time in Panama when—”

“Oh no you don’t,” Tony cuts him off, holding up a hand to fend off yet another recounting of Clint’s infamous severed toe story. “If things go south, your improvisation plan consists of one word: run.”

“But Mr. Stark—”

“Nope,” Tony says firmly. “You’re gonna go, scram, skedaddle, get the hell out of Dodge, kid. Don’t try playing the hero.”

Peter frowns. “But… isn’t that the whole job? Playing the hero?”

Natasha huffs out a short laugh as the jet touches down in the field. “He’s got a point there, Stark.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “No. Playing the hero is _our_ job,” he says, circling his index finger around to indicate himself and the rest of the team. Then landing on Peter, he continues sternly, _“Your_ job is to listen, take notes, follow orders, and not get hurt. _That_ is how you prove to us that you’re ready to come along on these missions, understood?”

That finally sobers Peter up. He bobs his head up and down so seriously that Tony’s half expecting him to follow it with a salute. “Yes sir. Understood, sir,” he agrees.

Tony softens a little at that response. It’s not that he doesn’t want Peter on this mission. It’s a fairly simple operation—perfect for training—and he truly does believe the kid is ready for something of this caliber. But now that they’re mere minutes away from actually bringing a sixteen-year-old into the field with them, Tony’s anxiety is starting to get the better of him.

“Alright,” Steve says as they all unbuckle their seatbelts, “is everyone clear on their positions?” 

The team members all nod their assent. Peter in particular appears to be a mixture of focused and excited, practically bouncing on his heels.

The quinjet door opens. “Then let’s roll out,” Steve commands.

Tony follows the captain down the ramp, Peter and Nat tailing behind. He’s just starting to think maybe Peter will be able to follow directions after all when the kid suddenly lets out a startled cry, which is immediately followed by a heavy ‘thump.’ 

“Pete?” Tony glances back over his shoulder, but the kid is nowhere in sight. Instead, he sees Natasha standing at the edge of the ramp gazing down at the ground with an unreadable expression.

Tony blinks. “Tell me he didn’t.”

“You mean trip over his own feet and fall right out of the ship?” Nat asks, raising an eyebrow at him. “Oh yeah. He did.”

 _“I’m completely and totally fine!”_ Peter’s voice hollers. 

“This kid, I swear to god…” Tony mutters as he and Steve jog down the rest of the ramp and around to where Peter is lying on the ground—several meters below—hurriedly pushing himself up to a sitting position.

“You sure you’re alright, son?” Steve asks in concern. “That was quite a fall.”

Peter’s face is nearly as red as his suit. “Yeah, yeah, definitely.” He takes the hand that Tony offers him and hoists himself up to his feet. “See? I’m fine. Let’s just go take down some bad guys.” 

Peter releases Tony’s hand and goes to take a step forward. But the second he puts weight on his right foot, it gives out. He grunts sharply and Tony just barely manages to loop an arm around him before he crumples to the ground once more.

Tony raises an eyebrow skeptically. “Completely and totally fine, eh?”

Not meeting his mentor’s gaze, Peter mumbles, “I, uh, maybe might’ve twisted my ankle a little bit?” At Tony’s deep exhale, he quickly adds, “But it’s fine! I can still help! I’ll just, uh, swing there and then—”

“Swing on what?” Tony gestures widely to the open field surrounding them. “The clouds? The birds? Cap’s shield?” 

Peter winces. “I’ll… um, hop?”

“Sure, you’ll hop your ass back onto the jet,” Tony retorts. He runs a hand through his hair in exasperation as FRIDAY projects the injury report from the Spider-Man suit onto the heads-up display of his glasses. Peter’s ankle is at minimum sprained, if not fractured. “You’re sitting this one out, kid.”


	2. Sick

“...and that’s how you make your mother’s ten-cent-a-week clothes washing salary stretch an extra three days,” Steve concludes knowingly. He casts a judging side glance at Clint—who is picking the crusts off of his PB&J in the seat beside him. “Just scrape the mold right off the bread, dip the crusts in water to soften them, and it’s basically good as new.”

“Yeah, we’ll all be sure to remember that one, Gramps,” Tony says with an eye-roll. “It was almost as good as your story about the literal three-bean soup.”

Steve shrugs before launching into the tale again. “Well, when all you have is three dried beans, a single bay leaf, and a streetful of hungry mouths to feed…”

Tony and Clint both cut the man off with a groan, prompting a short, breathy laugh from Peter. Following the tripping incident, the kid has taken part in several low-level Avengers missions over the past few months, and Tony has to admit he’s been doing quite well. Once he worked through his initial awe at getting to fight alongside literal superheroes, Peter’s proved himself to be quite an asset to the team.

Today in particular, Peter has been exceptionally focused and professional, choosing to sit quietly with the blueprints for the office building they’re about to infiltrate spread out across his lap rather than enthusiastically rambling on about the upcoming mission like he usually does during the flight over. Tony takes this as a sign of the kid’s growing maturity. 

(The only downside is that it leaves more room in the conversation for Steve’s depressing anecdotes of growing up in the thirties.)

As the soldier starts to recount the time as a teenager when he and Bucky caught and roasted a pigeon for Christmas dinner, Tony shifts his attention to the kid beside him.

“Finding anything interesting on there?” he asks, gesturing to the blueprints Peter is studying.

Peter looks up and blinks slowly at him. “Uh… sorry, what?”

Tony chuckles. “You’re just really into that map today,” he points out. “Are you trying to take over Nat’s position as navigator? Because if so, I should warn you I don’t think she’ll give it up without a fight. At least not after that time Clint tried and led us knee-deep through the sewer system.”

“Okay, for the last time,” Clint protests, “it was the most direct and untraceable route to the HYDRA base...”

Peter grimaces at that comment, then rubs a hand at the back of his neck. “Nah, I’m just, uh… running through it all in my head again.”

Tony smiles and gives Peter’s shoulder a couple of reassuring pats. “You don’t wanna overthink it either, kid. Just know where you’re starting, listen to the comms, and go with the flow—same as any other mission,” he advises.

“Yeah, yeah makes sense…” Peter mutters. He clumsily folds the map up and sets it aside. Then he hunches forward in his seat to rest his elbows on his knees. “Just would hate to mess up.”

Tony has never been one for sentimental heart-to-hearts, but there’s something he’s been meaning to tell the kid for the past few weeks and now seems like the golden opportunity. He steels himself with a breath before launching in. “You know, I’m really proud of the way you’ve stepped up lately and proved yourself on these missions, Pete,” he begins. “It’s not easy balancing the responsibility and commitment of this kind of lifestyle with everything else, but you’ve been doing a great job.”

“Uh, thanks Mr. Stark,” Peter says, the corner of his mouth turning up in a slight smile. “That…uh, that really means a lot.”

“Even when you’re working in the Big Leagues, you still manage to keep that ‘friendly neighborhood hero’ vibe going,” Tony continues, finding the words to be flowing easier as he keeps talking. “Just last week, I was really impressed by how you sat with that little girl and kept her calm until we were able to get her mother to safety.”

Peter hums a bit, then rests his head on his hands. “Wasn’t a big deal…”

“Sure it was,” Tony disagrees.  _ “And _ Natasha says you’re really coming along with your training sessions in the gym too. I mean, and Happy can confirm this, sparring with Black Widow isn’t something just  _ anyone _ would be able to—”

“Yep, thanks,” Peter cuts him off, hurriedly unbuckling himself and getting to his feet. “Uh, I gotta go, be right back.”

“Okay…?” Tony’s eyebrow raises as he watches Peter walk briskly away in the direction of the ship’s lavatory. 

Clint chuckles and shakes his head slowly. “Rejected by your own mentee, Stark. That’s gotta sting.”

(Tony flips him off.)

Still, Clint does have a point. Tony sits there— _ definitely not sulking _ —for about a minute before he notices Steve’s expression suddenly change. 

“Peter? You alright?” the soldier calls worriedly over his shoulder.

“What?” Tony asks with a frown.

Steve grimaces. “I think I hear him throwing up.”

“Ah shit...” Tony mutters, immediately getting to his feet. He should have known the kid was acting weird. 

Clint and Steve both wince in sympathy as Tony hurries past them toward the bathroom, now also hearing the retches. He stops at the closed door and raps the back of his knuckles against it.

“Pete?” he calls. “You okay?”

The only response he gets is a moan, followed by a choked gag. Tony takes that as his cue to enter. He pushes open the thankfully unlocked door to find Peter kneeling on the floor in front of the toilet. Sweat is beading on the kid’s forehead and neck as he retches painfully into the bowl.

Tony grimaces. “Jesus, kid… You weren’t gonna mention you were sick?”

“‘m fine,” Peter gasps out. “I can still fight, just like”—he swallows hard—“give me a minute.”

Tony steps into the small room and closes the door behind him. He places a hand on the back of Peter’s neck and sighs when he feels the heat pouring off his skin. “If your plan was to incapacitate the guards with this stomach bug of yours, hate to burst your bubble kiddo, but there’s generally an incubation period.”

Peter’s brow furrows. He opens his mouth, looking like he’s about to say something, but then quickly changes course to shove his head back over the toilet before retching again.

Tony moves over to crouch down beside Peter, placing a comforting hand on the kid’s back. “I think you might have to just sit this one out, bud.”

Peter can only groan.


	3. Bad Day

Peter isn’t having a good day.

It starts when he forgets to plug his phone in overnight and the battery dies, leaving him without an alarm that morning. He wakes to the sound of May banging on his bedroom door, telling him he has exactly ten minutes to get to the train station before it departs. He bolts out of bed so fast that he stubs his toe on his dresser, and then frantically starts throwing on clothes, only to realize that he’s out of deodorant. In a split-second decision, he sprays on some of May’s “Lily of the Valley” scented 24-hour anti-perspirant, grabs two pieces of slightly burnt toast from her on his way out the door, and races to the station smelling like a flower market.

(He misses his train anyway.)

The silver lining is that it’s raining (a cold, miserable, November morning drizzle), so by the time he arrives at school—twenty minutes late for first period—smelling like flowers is no longer a concern. He slumps into his seat, sweaty, damp, out of breath, and with a detention scheduled for next Monday.

(It’s at this moment that MJ takes out her crisis sketchbook.)

To make matters worse, Ned is out for a dentist appointment all morning, leaving no one for Peter to vent to at lunch. Normally he wouldn’t mind so much, except that he forgot his headphones at home and that weird kid Brandon accidentally spills milk all over his pants. 

Spanish class comes and goes, along with the conjugation quiz Peter completely forgot was scheduled for that day. He can’t remember the difference between imperfect and preterite verb tenses—which is the entire point of the quiz—so it’s pretty much a crapshoot as to what his score will be.

To finish the school day off with a bang, his unzipped backpack tumbles out of his locker thirty seconds after the final bell, spilling its contents all over the hallway and leaving Peter crawling around on the floor for papers and pencils amid a stampede of high schoolers on their way out the door. When he finally emerges from the building, he’s surprised to find Happy impatiently waiting for him in the pick up lane. 

_ “Finally,” _ the man groans in greeting.

Peter frowns at him. “Today’s not Friday, is it?” He knows he’s a little discombobulated, but he’s still pretty sure he didn’t skip three entire days without noticing.

“Didn’t you get my texts?” Happy snaps.

Peter shrugs. “My phone died.”

Happy rolls his eyes. “Just get in the car. I’ll explain on the way.”

As Peter soon learns, the illegal weapons dealers that Clint and Natasha have been keeping tabs on for the past few months just made contact with an underground cartel earlier that morning. There’s a fifty million dollar deal set to go down at sunset, and Tony wants Peter on the mission with them.

Normally, this would be thrilling news, but today Peter was just really looking forward to going home, changing into sweatpants, and zoning out to the next three episodes of Riverdale while shoveling Doritos into his mouth and forgetting this day ever happened.

(Oh well. Duty calls.)

**X**

Things get a little better once Peter’s suited up and on the quinjet, his phone charging while he eats a snack. He’s starting to think this day might just perk up after all when he gets a text from May right in the middle of Steve’s final pre-mission instructions:

_ Did you remember to submit the application form for that scholarship? The deadline was this morning. _

Peter’s heart sinks. There goes a potential five thousand dollars toward next year’s college tuition down the drain.

“I’m sorry, am I boring you?”

Peter’s head snaps up at the sound of the soldier’s voice and he quickly stuffs the phone back into his bag. “What? No! Sorry, I was listening!”

Steve is standing with his arms crossed and one eyebrow raised, looking disappointed enough to make Peter want to melt into the floor. “Well, I’d appreciate it if you focused up here with the rest of us.”

Peter feels his cheeks heat up. “Right, I will. I’m sorry.”

Steve nods solemnly. “Now, as I was saying…”

As Steve drones on, Peter stares down at his own feet, wondering if this day could get any worse.

The answer? Oh yes.

They’ve only just stormed in when one of the dealers takes off running. Without a second thought, Peter fires a web at him, then instantly regrets it as he realizes to his horror that he accidentally left the setting on ricochet. The tightly-wound ball of web bounces off the criminal’s forehead before exploding backwards. It hits Tony, webbing his left boot securely to the ground while the criminal—completely unhindered—makes a break for the window.

Peter swears he can see his mentor’s flabbergasted expression through the metal faceplate. “What the  _ hell _ was that?!” Tony sputters.

“I… I…” There are about twelve frantic apologies all muddling together in Peter’s brain, but none of them are making their way out of his mouth. His throat tightens and tears prick at his eyes under his mask. “I…”

Clint blows past him at a dead sprint. “Got him!” he hollers, and, without a second’s hesitation, leaps out the window after the criminal. Natasha and Steve head off in opposite directions in pursuit of two others, leaving Peter and Tony where they stand.

In the back of Peter’s mind, he knows he should be doing  _ something _ to help fix this, but he remains there, frozen in place. His vision blurs as a flood of tears erupts and his shoulders start to shake before he turns away, no longer able to keep the choked sobs from escaping as the day’s worth of stress comes crashing over him all at once.

There’s the sound of Tony’s faceplate retracting. His mentor’s voice sounds softer now, though there’s an edge of uncertainty to it. “Are… Are you crying?”

Mortified, Peter draws in a shaky breath. “It… It’s just been… a r-really bad day, Mr. Stark,” he chokes out.

The harder Peter tries to stop crying, the more uncontrollable the sobs become. Tony heaves out a sigh. “Alright, it’s gonna be okay. Just, uh…”—he makes a beckoning gesture—“come over here, alright?”

Too overwhelmed to do anything else, Peter obeys, moving shakily over to his mentor. The moment he gets within arm’s reach, Tony pulls him into a side hug with one arm while simultaneously taking the kid’s wrist with his other hand. Before Peter can register what’s happening, Tony presses an override command on the web shooter and fires solvent at his own trapped foot, freeing it.

The action causes a fresh round of tears to spring to Peter’s eyes as he realizes just how much of a hot mess he is at the moment. “I-I’m so s-sorry!” he manages.

“Don’t sweat it, kid, we all have our off days,” Tony says, already ushering Peter toward the door they came in. “Let’s just go wait on the ship for the team to finish up…”


	4. Stowaway

“Barton!” Tony snaps upon reentering the cockpit and catching sight of his teammate. “What did I say about eating while piloting multi-billion dollar state of the art spaceships?”

Clint—who is currently sucking neon orange crumbs off of his fingertips—glances back over his shoulder at him. “Uh… not to?”

“You’re getting Cheeto dust all over the control panel!” Tony exclaims, gesturing angrily at the greasy fingerprints covering the dashboard. 

Clint shrugs. “I got hungry.”

“We just ate before we left. Bucky made sandwiches—you had like, three.”

“Can’t help it. I have hypoglycemia. Gotta snack frequently.” Clint pops another handful of Cheetos into his mouth. “If I faint while I’m in space, I’ll float away.”

Tony gives him a look of utter disbelief. “Are you seriously playing the fast metabolism card when there is a literal super soldier sitting right next to you?” he demands, pointing at Steve (who gives a small wave). “If he can wait, then so can you.”

“Oh please,” Clint scoffs. “He was just drinking a protein shake a minute ago.”

Shrugging, Steve picks up a sleek metal bottle from his cup holder. “I did warn Buck that cucumber isn’t the most substantial sandwich filling, but this is Meatless Monday,” he explains. He uncaps the bottle and takes a swig. “He couldn’t be budged.”

Tony rolls his eyes. While he’s glad that Bucky and Bruce have been bonding lately over their stress relief tactics (which mainly consist of gardening, baking, and most recently, skimming back issues of Good Housekeeping magazine), it was a bit unexpected just how readily the hundred-and-one year old man took to Bruce’s environmentalism lectures. Bucky is practically greener than Hulk these days.

“Yeah well at least one of you is keeping his snack _contained,”_ Tony points out. Steve acknowledges him by raising the bottle in Tony’s direction, mimicking a toast, and nodding once in approval. “Be more like Steve.”

At that, Clint immediately jerks the steering wheel up, causing Tony to stumble backwards into the wall and Steve’s protein shake to explode in his face.

 _“Barton!”_ both Tony and Steve snap.

“Whoops. My bad,” Clint chuckles as the shake drips down Steve’s uniform and the surrounding surfaces. “Thought I saw a meteor there, but turns out it was just your self-righteousness.”

“You know, if I wanted to bring actual _children_ on this mission, I would have let Peter come along,” Tony gripes, wiping protein shake off his own sleeve. “God knows the kid begged enough.”

“Wish you had,” Clint quips. “He’s better company than you lot.”

Still grumbling to himself, Tony moves back to the cargo area of the ship to fetch some paper towels. He’s fairly sure Bruce insisted on adding a bulk package to the supply closet last time he came along on a mission, which Tony’s now grateful for. But the moment he swings open the closet door, he freezes.

Peter—dressed in his Spider-Man suit, minus the mask—is sitting crouched on an overturned plastic bucket, playing a game on his phone. He looks up at Tony, eyes big as saucers.

Tony blinks at him. “Oh hell no.”

Peter holds up a hand, scrambling to his feet and knocking over a broom in the process. “Look, I know you said I couldn’t come, but I’ve been training really hard lately and I think if you just give me a chance, you’ll see that—”

“Nope.” Tony cuts him off by slamming the door in his young charge’s face. “I said you do _not_ come on missions involving homicidal space aliens and that’s final.”

Steve’s questioning voice comes from the cockpit, “Was that Peter I just heard?”

Tony leans his shoulder into the door to hold it shut while the kid frantically bangs on it. “Just clean the shake up with Clint’s spare clothes,” he hollers at the curious soldier. “Closet’s off-limits.”

“Wait, wait Mr. Stark!” Peter protests, his voice muffled. “I-I can help! I’ll be your lookout! I’ll be backup, I’ll fly the ship, I’ll—”

“This is not up for discussion.” Tony turns the lock, trapping Peter inside. “You’re benched, Parker.”


	5. Homework

“But you said I could go!” Peter protests.

His mentor rolls his eyes, not for the first time that afternoon. “Yeah, well, that was before I knew Spider-Man was one assignment away from failing US history.”

Peter is trotting alongside the group of superheroes as they make their way down the long hallway. “It’s one assignment, Mr. Stark!” he argues. “I can do it later! Please just let me come with you guys!”

Tony stops walking and whirls around so suddenly that he crashes into him. “It’s a _twelve-page term paper._ Due at midnight.”

Peter gulps. “I-I can do it on the ship!” he stammers.

“Sure, kid,” Tony scoffs, resuming his purposeful strides toward the quinjet hangar. “As if anyone can even think on that ship—let alone write a dozen pages on the Kennedy assassination—with Barton’s pre-mission harmonica ballads in the background.”

“Hey!” Clint pipes up. “I’ve been getting better lately.”

“Well it’s hard to get any worse…” Natasha says under her breath, causing the archer to clutch his chest dramatically and let out a gasp of mock offense.

“But you _promised,_ Mr. Stark,” Peter steers the conversation back, trying hard to keep the childish whine out of his voice (though he has to admit he’s not entirely successful). “You said the next mission that didn’t involve homicidal space aliens, I was on the roster.”

Tony heaves out an exasperated sigh. “Yeah and _you_ promised all this Spider-Manning wouldn’t affect your grades, but an hour ago FRIDAY informed me you’re currently pulling in a D in history, so I guess we’re both liars.”

“It’s a high D,” Peter defends. “Sixty-eight percent.”

“Yeah, and if you miss your deadline for that paper tonight, it’s gonna be a _high F,”_ Tony retorts.

They turn another corner in the hallway and Peter’s internal desperation increases. “But who cares about history anyway?” he tries again. “It’s just a bunch of names and dates and places to remember and then spit back out on a test. Useless! _This”_ —he gestures to his own suit and his surrounding teammates—“is what’s actually important.”

Steve chuckles and pats Peter on the shoulder as Bucky (who is also sitting this one out) hands his partner the bag of sack lunches he assembled for the team. “You know what they say, Pete,” Steve says as Bucky pecks him on the cheek. “Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it.”

Peter grips his own hair in frustration, watching as the others all start to filter out the door to the hanger. “But it’s not even _possible_ to repeat the Kennedy assassination—he’s already dead!”

Stopping in the doorway, Tony turns to him and sighs. “Look, kid, I know you want to help, and that’s very noble of you, but school has to come first. The rest of us are going on the mission, and you’re staying to write your paper. Sorry, but that’s how it’s gonna be.”

And with that, he shuts the door in the kid’s face and clicks the lock behind him.

“Mr. Stark! Wait!” Peter begs, jiggling the handle fruitlessly. Through the window in the door, he watches Tony make his way across the hanger and up the quinjet ramp. Just before boarding, he turns around and gives Peter a little wave.

It’s not until the ramp retracts and the ship takes off that Peter finally accepts defeat. He turns around and leans his back against the door, covering his face with his hands before letting himself slide down to the ground with an exaggerated moan.

“I think I killed him.”

Peter looks up instantly at the quiet voice, startled by the sudden reminder that he’s not alone in the room. “Killed who?” he asks.

Bucky is still standing where Steve left him, staring straight ahead. “Kennedy,” he says. “I think… I think that might’ve been me.”

“Huh?” Peter frowns, then suddenly it clicks. “Oh. Ohhh... You mean back when you were, uh…?”

Still staring blankly forward, Bucky gives a slight nod. “I think so.”

(There’s a beat of silence between them.)

“Well…” Peter hesitantly ventures, “did you maybe wanna help me with my essay then?”

Bucky continues staring off into space. “Think I need to take a walk for a little while...”

“Oh. Alright then,” Peter agrees as the dazed ex-assassin starts moving back down the hall. “Just let me know, okay?”


	6. Flashback

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> +1: Peter benches Tony

It’s been about eighteen months now since Peter started coming along on missions with the Avengers, and despite the most recent half-dozen or so going fairly well, Tony is still reluctant to bring the kid along if aliens are involved. But when an invasion of hostile Scronquad occurred only a few blocks from Midtown, Peter isn’t about to just continue sitting in his social studies class. He snags a bathroom pass from the teacher, races past the hall monitor, grabs his suit from under the lockers, and hightails it downtown to where the action is taking place.

Honestly, it’s a good thing he does because not even three minutes after arriving on the scene, he witnesses Iron Man being blown out of the sky by a Scronquad’s force field and straight into the Hudson.

“Holy shit!” Peter exclaims. He whirls around and taser webs the alien to the side of an abandoned eighteen-wheeler before racing toward the bank of the river. Air bubbles are rapidly rising to the surface right above where he saw Tony plummet into the water. 

“C’mon Iron Man, c’mon…” Peter begs. He’s fully expecting Tony to come bursting forth any second, but the bubbles just get smaller and smaller until they disappear completely. 

Peter swears under his breath. He shoots a web at a nearby lamppost to give himself some kind of anchor and, without another second’s thought, dives directly into the river. 

At first, the shock of the cold, murky water is so great that Peter can’t see anything. It takes a few seconds for his eye lenses to adjust, but then he sees it—the glowing arc reactor of the Iron Man suit, sinking lifelessly to the bottom.

With his own heart hammering in his chest, Peter swims down after Tony with powerful strokes. As soon as he’s within reach, he grabs the man’s arm and presses the retract button on his web shooter, yanking them both back to the surface. 

They burst out of the water near the edge of the bank. Peter immediately drags his mentor’s unmoving form onto shore. Evidently the alien did some damage to the suit in the blast because water is pouring out from a substantial hole in the chestplate and Peter has no way of knowing if Tony is even breathing. 

“Mr. Stark, c’mon, you gotta open up here!” Peter starts running his hands over the suit, tapping different parts, urgently searching for some kind of quick release button and finding none. In a fit desperation, he grips the the damaged edges of the chestplate and uses his enhanced strength to rip the damn thing off.

Immediately, the rest of the suit retracts into itself, leaving Tony lying there motionless in his soaked tracksuit.

“Mr. Stark! Tony! C’mon wake up!” Peter begs, desperately trying to remember his CPR training. But it turns out that’s not necessary because the second he presses his fingers to the pulse point in his mentor’s neck, Tony lurches up with a gasp, coughing and sputtering out water. 

Peter grabs his shoulders to support him, but the man instantly jerks away from his grip.

“No… no… get off!” Tony gasps out. “Don’t… fucking…. touch me!” He’s trembling all over, eyes darting around in panic. “Don’t… No, no… Get back!”

“Okay, okay, I’m off!” Peter holds up both hands in front of his chest in surrender. “It’s okay,” he assures. “You’re out now, it’s over.”

Tony still isn’t making eye contact with him. “No… no!” He keeps shaking his head back and forth frantically, drawing in breaths that are far too quick and scrambling backwards on the ground. “Get off… Get-Get off me!”

Peter’s taken aback. He’s never seen his mentor this shaken up before. “It’s just me, Mr. Stark,” he says. “No one else is here right now. You’re okay. Just breathe, okay? It’s gonna be fine.”

Tony clutches a hand to his chest. “Can’t,” he gasps. “Can’t breathe—water—it’s, can’t—more time! Please—”

Peter is at a total loss. “Karen, what’s going on?” he pleads. “Is he still drowning? Is it the arc reactor? What the hell is happening?”

“Scanning now,” Karen informs. For a few seconds, Peter just sits there, feeling helpless, watching Tony struggle to get a breath in as the battle continues on in the background. “Scan complete,” she announces. “His blood pressure and heart rate are elevated but I detect no major injuries or fluid in the lungs. All signs are pointing to a severe panic attack, most likely brought on by past trauma.”

Suddenly, Peter recalls hearing some of the details of Tony’s captivity in Afghanistan. Only vague parts of the story made it into the mainstream news articles, but Peter has learned more from the team since then, including how his mentor was repeatedly waterboarded for refusing to cooperate. An unexpected plunge into an icy river in a damaged suit is no doubt triggering an onslaught of horrible memories.

Peter lowers his voice, making an effort to keep his tone calm. “Mr. Stark, I think you’re having a flashback right now, but it’s not real. You’re here in New York with me—Peter—okay?”

Tony covers his face with his hands, shoulders shaking with each shuddery inhale. “No, no…” he protests, shaking his head. “I just need more time! Please!”

“Take all the time you need,” Peter says quietly, despite knowing that’s not what he is referring to. “It’s okay. I’ll be right here, okay Mr. Stark?”

Peter keeps whispering reassurances for the next few minutes until the panic ebbs away. When Tony finally lowers his hands long enough to look at Peter, his expression changes and he lowers his gaze in shame.

“Are you back with me now?” Peter asks softly.

Tony nods tightly, but won’t meet Peter’s gaze. His breathing is starting to stabilize now and some of the color is coming back to his cheeks.

“Are you hurt anywhere?” Peter asks. He’s hovering a hand over his mentor’s arm, but not quite touching him.

“No,” Tony whispers, shaking his head. “’m fine.”

Peter hesitates a second. He’s pretty sure Tony’s just about the furthest thing from fine at the moment, but they do need to get out of there so he decides to take him at face value and extends a hand. 

This time Tony doesn’t shake him off. He grasps Peter’s hand to hoist himself up, swaying a bit on his feet, but quickly finding his balance.

“You good?” Peter checks. 

Tony nods again and releases the hand. “I’m good.”

Peter breathes out a sigh of relief. “Okay, then let’s get you out of here. Where’s the quinjet parked?”

“Huh?” Tony’s brow furrows. “Why?”

“I’m gonna walk you back,” Peter says.

“What?” Tony shakes his head firmly. “No… no I’m alright now.” He points in the direction of the battle. “They need me out there. I-I gotta get back.”

Peter frowns. “Mr. Stark, I really don’t think you’re in any condition to fight right now.”

Still shaking his head, Tony starts to push past him. “I’m fine,” he mutters. “I’ll just call another suit…”

His mentor stumbles forward a bit and Peter grabs his wrist. His voice is firmer now. “I can’t let you go back out there like this. You just nearly drowned, and you were kinda freaking out for a minute there.”  _ Not to mention, freaking me out, _ he adds silently.

Tony rolls his eyes. “Listen, I appreciate the concern, kid, but I’m fine. So just step aside and—”

“No, _ you  _ listen,” Peter cuts him off sharply. His worry is starting to morph into anger now and he holds a stern finger up to emphasize his words. “Either you’re walking yourself back to that ship, or I’m carrying you. Don’t think I’m bluffing because  _ I’m not.” _

Tony just stares at him. 

Peter crosses his arms and glares right back.

There’s a moment’s pause. Finally, Tony breaks it. “Well,” he says, looking vaguely impressed, “when you put it like that…” He sighs and points off down the street. “Quinjet is that way.”

Peter nods sharply. “Then let’s go.”


	7. Bonus Drabbles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of bonus drabbles, some expanding on parts of the story and others featuring various Avengers getting benched. Enjoy!

**Drabbles:**

  1. **Drinking to Forget**
  2. **Called Off**
  3. **Cast Away**
  4. **Heading Home**
  5. **Wardrobe Malfunction**
  6. **Captain Hulk**
  7. **Power Down**
  8. **Mission Impossible**



* * *

**1\. Drinking to Forget**

“It was a really long time ago, Buck,” Steve says as he passes Bucky his third straight cup of chamomile since arriving home from the mission to find his partner in anguish. “You gotta let it go.”

Bucky takes the cup from him numbly, causing the blanket that Steve wrapped around him to slide down his shoulders a bit. “But he was the president,” he whispers, staring into the steaming mug. “The _president,_ Steve.”

Steve shrugs. “Eh, everyone’s gotta go sometime. He’d be dead by now anyway, even if you hadn’t shot him.”

“You don’t know that for sure!” Bucky protests, his pitch rising. “He could still be alive!”

“He was born in 1917,” Steve points out with a frown. “He’d be like a hundred and two years old.”

“You mean like _us?!”_ Bucky demands. He picks up the mug and downs the piping hot beverage in two massive gulps—causing Steve to wince—before slamming it back down onto the table. He covers his face with his hands and moans. “I should turn myself in!”

Steve sighs. “Look, Buck, the past is in the past. We all have regrets in life, but we gotta keep moving forward.”

“Easy for you to say when you're America’s Golden Child! You didn’t kill JFK!”

Steve wraps an arm around his partner with a deep sigh and pulls the other man’s head down onto his shoulder. “There, there, Buck…” He uses his free hand to pour more tea into the mug from the ornate pot on the table in the hopes they might get to sleep before three a.m. “Just let it out…”

* * *

**2\. Called Off**

“Alright,” Steve begins, picking up his shield. “Everyone knows the plan? Barton, you’re handling the perimeter.”

Clint clicks his tongue and makes finger guns in the captain’s direction. “Piece of cake.”

Steve turns to Natasha. “Nat, you’re taking out the guards.”

She smirks at him. “To dinner?”

“Whatever keeps them away from the door.” Then, turning to Tony—who’s been uncharacteristically quiet thus far—Steve says, “And Tony, you’re going to be handling the—”

Just then, Steve’s pocket starts buzzing. “Hold on a moment…” he mutters, pulling out his phone. The ID reads _Pepper Potts._ He accepts the call with a frown. “Hello?”

“Is Tony on that mission?” Pepper demands without preamble.

Steve glances up at Tony, who is making a slashing motion in front of his throat and shaking his head side to side urgently “Um, why?” he asks.

She lets out a frustrated huff. “Of course he fucking is…” she mutters. “Listen, _Steven,”_ she emphasizes, causing the soldier to wince, “do not—and I repeat, _do not_ —let him off that jet.”

Steve glances over his shoulder at Tony, who is now gazing downward and idly picking at a piece of fuzz on his shirt. “Uh… any particular reason for this?”

She scoffs hotly. “Oh, no big deal. Just that he _HAD A HEART ATTACK LAST NIGHT!”_

Her voice is loud enough through the phone that the whole team turns as one to stare at Tony, who only rolls his eyes. “Aw, c’mon, Pep!” he complains loudly. “For the last time, it was just a mild episode of cardiac dysrhythmia! I told you, I’m _fine,_ okay?”

Pepper’s words are seething now. “Rogers, if you let that idiot off the ship, I swear to all things holy, I will make every last one of you rue the day you were born.”

There are few things in life that still genuinely terrify the supersoldier, and Pepper Potts is one of them. Steve’s head bobs up and down. “Yes, ma’am. Understood,” he agrees readily. “You have my word, he will be staying on the ship.”

Leaning back against his seat, Tony lets out an annoyed groan. “Oh grow a pair, Cap…” he mutters.

* * *

**3\. Cast Away**

“Nat! Wait for me!”

Natasha rolls her eyes at the sight of Clint kicking his duffle bag towards the quinjet ramp—due to the fact that both of his arms are encased in plaster casts at ninety-degree angles. “You’re on _leave,_ Barton. You have two broken arms.”

“They’re mostly healed by now!” he argues. “C’mon, I’m going crazy sitting here on my ass.”

She crosses her arms. “And how exactly are you planning to shoot your bow?”

Clint scoffs. “You’re forgetting I used to be in the circus, Romanov,” he says with a grin. “It’s called a trick shot. I’ll hold the bow with my feet and pull the string with my teeth!”

She raises an eyebrow at him. “And how are you planning on running away then? With your butt cheeks?”

Clint opens his mouth, then closes it again. “...Alright, you got me there.”

* * *

**4\. Heading Home**

“Nat?” Tony demands over the comms. “Nat, you good?”

Natasha blinks a few times, trying to clear her vision. She should really talk to Fury one of these days about getting a helmet to go with her suit if she’s going to keep getting slammed head first into brick walls.

“Yeah… yeah fine,” she mutters. She pushes herself to her feet quickly, ignoring the rush of dizziness in her pounding skull.

“Alright, then head for the west entrance,” Tony commands. “One of the guards just ran that way.”

“Yeah, alright.” Nat staggers forward, but then instantly has to cling to a wall to keep upright. Black spots dance before her eyes and she feels like she might puke. 

Two fuzzy images of Tony approach her, both looking equally concerned. “Nat?” 

“I’m good, I’m…” She blinks and rubs a hand over her face to try to clear her vision, but when she lowers it, there are four Tonys now. “On second thought, I think I might just head back to the ship…”

* * *

**5\. Wardrobe Malfunction**

The two and a half hour drive from Midtown to the compound every other Friday is going to be the death of Happy Hogan. Not because of the distance or the traffic or the fact that at least one lane of the highway is permanently under construction (though none of that helps). No, it’s because Peter’s last class of the day is wood shop. This means not only does the kid enter the car covered in sawdust, but he’s also bursting with stories of his incompetent shop teacher.

“...so after we stopped the bleeding,” Peter continues his story, “Betty walked Miguel down to the nurse. That’s when Anthony and Devin started sword-fighting with the wooden dicks they’d just carved until one of them knocked over Mr. Pringle’s diet Pepsi and that’s when he told us all to just sit down.”

“Uh _huh,”_ Happy hums.

“Oh! And then Kendra and Sofie started fighting over the engraver, and that was when Devin—” Suddenly, Peter cuts himself off with a gasp. “Oh no…” he whispers.

Happy frowns. “What?”

Peter bends down to hurriedly unzip his backpack and starts rifling through the contents. “Oh no… oh no…” he mutters. He looks back up at Happy, eyes wide. “I need to go back to the city.”

 _“Back?”_ Happy balks, pointing at the road. “We’re like five minutes away from the compound! I can practically see the driveway!”

Peter eyes are darting around nervously. “I know, but… I forgot something for the mission tonight. Something really important.”

Happy rolls his eyes. “Stark’s got an extra toothbrush, kid.”

“It’s not—I mean… I uh…” Peter lowers his gaze to the floor and heaves out a defeated sigh. “I forgot my suit.”

Happy blinks at him. “You didn’t.”

Peter nods miserably. “I did.”

(There’s a beat of silence between them.)

Finally, Happy breaks it by pulling out his phone with a sigh. “Well, lucky for you, Bruce and I were planning a Downton Abbey marathon tonight. He makes good popcorn.”

Peter just covers his face with his hands and moans.

* * *

**6\. Captain Hulk**

Hulk frowns at the injured soldier. “Cap hurt?”

Steve grimaces, struggling to push himself back to his feet as blood streams down from the gash in his leg. “I’m fine.”

“No! Cap hurt!” Hulk insists.

Steve shakes his head. “It’s not that bad, I just gotta get back out there and—”

“Cap sit!” Hulk declares, pointing angrily at the ground. “No fight! Only Hulk fight!”

“I don’t think that’s a great idea, buddy, maybe just—”

“NO!” Hulk stomps his foot, denting the asphalt. In one swift motion, he grabs Steve by the back of his uniform collar and starts marching him back toward the quinjet. 

“Hulk! Put me down!” Steve protests.

“Cap SIT!” he orders, plopping the soldier down inside. Then, turning back to the battle, he chuckles darkly, cracking his enormous green knuckles. “Now… Hulk smash!”

* * *

**7\. Power Down**

It’s been a while since Bucky came along on a mission with the team—mostly due to his mental instability (which was not helped by learning he assassinated a beloved president)—so he’s a bit wary. But Steve insisted that this mission, though rather unpleasant, would not be triggering for the supersoldier.

“Can’t believe a herd of Scronquad found a way to shut down the entire New York sewer system,” Tony grumbles while Bucky slides another gun into his holster. “Fucking hate those slimy, ten-tentacled, purple polka-dotted, evil vermin…”

Bruce—the resident alien species expert—pipes up from the cockpit, “Did you know that a herd of Scronquad is called a gaxed?”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Who the hell would know that?” 

“You should’ve,” Steve mutters, sounding a bit miffed. “It was on my powerpoint.”

Bucky chuckles to himself. But when he goes to load his third gun, his arm lets out a low mechanical whir before dropping to his side, causing the bullets he was holding to clatter to the floor. Every member of the team turns to stare at him.

“Shit. Knew I forgot something...” Bucky mutters, trying and failing to move his metal limb.

Tony blinks. “Did…Did you not charge your arm last night?”

“You were the one who said charging it all the time wasn't good for the battery,” Bucky defends.

“I didn’t mean you should skimp on mission nights!” Tony exclaims in frustration. “You can charge it _then!”_

“It’s been a while, alright?” Bucky says hotly. “I’m a little rusty!”

Steve steps between the two of them with a deep sigh. “Alright, let it go. We’ll try again next time, Buck…”

* * *

**8\. Mission Impossible**

“Alright I’m out,” Steve grunts into the comms as he limps his way back up the ramp, keeping his weight off his dislocated knee. Even he isn’t dumb enough to pretend he can keep going at the moment. “I’m heading back to the ship.”

Nat’s voice comes through his earpiece, sounding a bit muffled, “Join the club.” 

“What do you mean?” Steve asks, brow furrowing. But as soon as he enters the quinjet, he understands 

Natasha is sitting in one of the seats, pressing an ice pack to her very clearly broken jaw. To her right, Bruce is slumped against her shoulder, out cold, with Tony’s suit jacket draped over his bare torso. There’s a figure sprawled across the remaining three seats, completely covered by a felt blanket, minus his boots, occasionally letting out low moans. Process of elimination dictates this must be Clint, because Tony is sitting on the floor in front of them, one pant leg rolled up to reveal a deep gash in his calf, which he’s currently stitching.

“What happened to Mr. I-Can-Do-This-All-Day?” Tony mocks, tying off one of the threads with a grunt.

Steve sighs defeatedly. “We’re in Jersey. They’ve seen worse than a gaxed of Scronquad. This is basically just another Tuesday.”

Tony hums in agreement. Clint, meanwhile, lifts the blanket just high enough to hang his head out over the edge of the seat and puke into a strategically placed bucket.

Steve grimaces. “Let’s just call it a day.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Comments are always appreciated <3 
> 
> Come and hang out on tumblr if you want: [whumphoarder](https://whumphoarder.tumblr.com/) & [awesomesockes](http://awesomesockes.tumblr.com/)


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